Drugs
by Guinevere81
Summary: When John comes home to find Sherlock high as a kite he may have expected many things, violence was not one of them.


Summary: When John comes home to find Sherlock high as a kite he may have expected a lot of things, violence was not one of them.

As so many have said before me, I do not own them, they are the property of Gattis and Moffat and I lay no claim to them.

John was tired, so very tired and all he wanted was a nice cup of tea and his own bed. His frustration was therefore all the greater when he walked through the door to their flat and saw his flatmate. Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa with a manic grin across his face staring into his cup of coffe and John knew straight away that something was wrong. Sherlock was only happy when he was in the middle of a case and the relaxed posture and lack of texts to his flatmate suggested that this was not the case.

Hanging his coat up he walked over to his flatmate and kneeled down. Pupils dilated, so that was it then, drugs, again. "Sherlock, what have you taken" he asked grabbing Sherlock's arm to check for track marks.

The reaction was lightning fast and unexpected. Sherlock's other arm snapped forward hitting Johns temple with a thud making the Doctor slouch to the floor with a surprised gasp. "Sherlock…" he snapped in annoyance as stars danced before his eyes , he was once again surprised by the strength of Sherlock's lean frame "Jesus … I was just…" his sentence was cut short by a vicious kick to his side that made him double over. "Don't… touch… me" Sherlock quipped in a detached voice landing another kick with each carefully separated word. Then he stalked off to his bedroom leaving John curled up on the floor, too stunned to defend himself.

He lay there for what must have been nearly ten minutes breathing shallowly and trying not to think of what had just happened. Sherlock had never been a very easy flatmate and yes, he had hit John once before, on their way to the woman, but that had been to provoke a reaction. This was different, this had not been done to provoke a reaction but to cause hurt.

It was just the drugs; John reminded himself as he struggled to his feet and went after Sherlock. Knocking on the door to Sherlock's bedroom got no reaction, nor did calling his name so John opened the door cautiously, ready for another attack, and entered the room. Sherlock was splayed out on the covers snoring slightly, his chest rising and falling in an even pattern. John hesitated for a second and then closed the door and went to his own bedroom. It would be better to talk about this when Sherlock was more himself. It could wait until the morning.

He was awakened from a fitful sleep the next morning by Sherlock pounding on his door and then entering the room without having been invited. "Lestrade called, hurry, we have a case" Sherlock quipped and for a moment John wondered if he had imagined the events of the past evening. Sherlock was just so absolutely normal, no sign of anything amiss.

It didn't really surprise John that there was no remorse in Sherlock's voice but it did hurt just a little, which was nothing compared to how much it hurt when John hastily sat up, a movement that sent agony searing through his upper body. Taking shallow breaths he braced himself and stood, making his way to the bathroom with more care than usual. Removing his pyjamas he stood in front of the mirror for a second taking in the sight of his own battered body. He definitely had not been imagining it. His chest was covered in bruises, heavier on the left side, large red and blue blotches creating a sort of inverse map across his chest. He was going to have to talk to Sherlock about what had happened. After the case he would, before Sherlock harmed himself or someone else. It did not quite register in John's mind that this had in fact already happened.

Sherlock bustled through the crime scene with his usual enthusiasm and snide remarks and John held back. As long as no one expected him to lift anything or do push-ups he thought he would be able to hide his discomfort and it seemed he was right. Sherlock made his deductions and together with Lestrade they headed out the building their aim set for the morgue.

That was when he slipped up. Sally grabbed him from behind jostling his arm. "John, you forgot your gloves" she froze and let go as John hissed and lent forward in a defensive stance, his right arm wrapping tightly around his body and grabbing onto his left shoulder. "I'm sorry, I…" she hesitated as Sherlock snapped around fixing her with an icy stare just as he rounded on his friend,

"John?" the concern was obvious in his voice and John struggled to merge this protective Sherlock with the one who had purposefully hurt him the night before. "I'm fine" he breathed through gritted teeth "just my shoulder playing up." Thank god for old war wounds he thought as he slowly let go of his shoulder and accepted the gloves from Sally. He could feel the others watching him as he straightened and tried to act as normal as possible. Had they believed him, he really didn't want to land Sherlock in trouble.

The day seemed to slip by in what should not be a routine but was. When had strange analysis at morgues and pouring over files with Lestrade become normal John mused as he stepped out of the taxi and headed for the door, Sherlock two steps ahead of him. They headed up the stairs in silence and John put the kettle on as Sherlock flopped into his chair.

"Don't move the hand" Sherlock instructed as John went to get the milk out of the fridge. He frowned at the hand lying in a large bowl, floating in some sort of liquid but did not touch it. Instead he got the milk for their tea and added Sherlock's sugar. He closed his eyes and leaned against the counter trying to will himself to engage in the unpleasant conversation of Sherlock's slip back into drug abuse. He walked over to his friend who accepted the tea without any comment, sipping contentedly as John positioned himself in the chair opposite him. Sherlock was typing away at the computer and John just sat watching him and drinking his tea, postponing the inevitable.

When he had finished his tea he took a deep breath and steeled himself. "Sherlock…" the consulting detective didn't even look up from the computer, he just hummed slightly. "Sherlock we need to talk, would you put the computer away." He swallowed hard trying to force himself not to feel the discomfort that he was obviously feeling. "Why, I can type and talk at the same time." Sherlock retorted and John sighed. "Sherlock, about last night. I know you didn't mean to… but... when did you start taking drugs again and what is it this time?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly his eyebrows going up in a sign of confusion. His typing was getting faster, seemingly impossibly fast by John's reckoning and the answer was completely calm and detached. "I am not taking drugs John, would you kindly leave the deductions to me, you are no good at it".

Ignoring the insult John stood turning toward the hallway and his coat which held his mobile phone. "Fine if you won't talk to me I will call Mycroft, he has enough experience with dealing with you when you are being unreasonable". John thought that the mention of Sherlock's brother would garner a reaction and he hoped it would be an admission and a willingness to talk to John so as to avoid talking to Mycroft. What he did not expect was the weight of the computer colliding with the back of his head sending him crumbling to the floor with a dull thud. The last thing he heard before oblivion claimed him was Sherlock's whispered "You bastard, don't you dare" and then the world went mercifully black.

When he came to Sherlock was gone and John didn't know if he was relieved or worried. Gingerly he tried to sit up noting in despair that Sherlock had clearly not stopped at knocking him senseless. The world tilted at an odd angle as he forced himself into a sitting position but even with his senses impaired he could tell that he would not be able to hide things any longer.

His left arm hung limply at his side, he could lift it a little but only with the result of pain stabbing through him like a knife. It wasn't just the shoulder either, his lower arm was terribly swollen and he couldn't move his fingers no matter how much he tried. He cursed under his breath wondering if Sherlock was still in the flat. Using his functioning arm he tried to force himself to his feet, cursing again when pain flared through his right leg. He realised then that this was no coincidence. Sherlock had known to target the areas of John's body that were already fragile, sensitive.

Tears stung in John's eyes at the thought of his friend using his deductive powers against him, using them to cause him maximum amount of pain. This was not Sherlock, somehow he must have managed to give himself whatever he had taken the other night behind Johns back as he was making tea. He would not do this otherwise. He would not. John reasoned with himself as he slowly and painfully made his way to his coat to get to the mobile in its pocket. As soon as he found it he allowed himself to slip softly to the floor leaning his back into the wall and trying to slow his breathing down. He hesitated only a moment before firing off the text that he knew Sherlock would hate him for.

I need your help. JW

He did not have to wait long for a reply.

My broter? MH

Yes, he's using again. JW

As he waited for a reply John wondered pointlessly if Mycroft actually did his texting himself or if that was what Anthea was for.

Is it bad? MH

John chuckled slightly to himself but found it hurt and took a shallow breath instead.

Yes, it's bad. JW

And I need a doctor. JW

He added the last message with a selfhatred he did not know he possessed. But then he knew that Mycroft would figure out what had happened within a second of laying eyes on him so he may as well cut to the chase.

OD? Ambulance on the way MH

John blinked at the message, always just a little bit touched when Mycroft displayed his care for his younger brother.

No, for me. Had an accident. Ambulance not necessary JW

He still could not quite bring himself to say what had happened, he would leave Mycroft to his deductions. Ten seconds later his phone pinged once again.

We're coming. MH

Somehow John was not surprised when Mycroft burst up the stairs ten minutes later followed by Anthea and a very crisply dressed man in a suit carrying a medical bag. Mycroft did seem to be able to defy the laws of traffic.

John had not moved since that last text had arrived and was still sat against the wall of the entrance hall trying to not do anything that would make things hurt even more than they did. Mycroft did not react at all at the sight of him but Anthea's eyes widened somewhat and she inhaled deeply making John realise that he probably was not a very pretty sight.

"Where is he?" Mycroft asked calmly gesturing for the medic to get to work. "I don't know" John gasped as the man poked and prodded. "Can you tell me what hurts?" he asked professionally as Mycroft fired off instructions into his phone. John was tempted to answer, everything, but knew that was not a productive answer so he took as deep a breath as his battered body would let him and started cataloguing his injuries.

"Blow to the head, second in two days, my vision is impaired but I haven't been sick. A lot of bruising to my upper body, ribs may be cracked but not broken. My right leg is damaged but I don't think it is broken. The left arm is the worst, can't lift it, can't move my fingers." The description made John feel rather faint, how had this happened?

The man turned around and fired off a single word "ambulance" at Anthea who quickly began typing. "No…" John closed his eyes and tried to not panic as the man started to cut his shirt off of him. "You won't exactly be walking out of here." Mycroft was off the phone and had turned back to John. "He did this to you." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact but John nodded slightly and grit his teeth against the pain as the doctor started to jostle his injured arm. "Try to move your fingers" the doctor ordered and John tried to comply but his fingers only twitched slightly and John had to clench his jaw against the pain to stop from crying out loud. "I'll give you something for the pain" the man said and John shook his head. He wanted the pain, it kept him from thinking about what had actually caused it, kept him from the other pain that was so much worse, the knowledge that Sherlock had done this. Then John felt the needle and the burn of the medication entering his system and he knew his request had not been heeded. Thankfully as the pain faded so did the world around John and he sagged as the medication claimed his consciousness.

Slowly he found his way back to the world and found himself blinking awake to the white of a hospital room. His left arm was in a long cast but he was relieved to be able to once again move his fingers with only a modicum of pain. His chest was bandaged too and he could see that his right leg had been elevated under the covers. What had happened he questioned for just a blink of an eye before it all came crashing back to him. "No" he gasped out and tried to sit but fell back against the bed. Blinking he found someone moving beside him.

For one brief moment John expected Sherlock and fear coursed through him before he could stop it. But it wasn't Sherlock, instead Mycroft rose to his feet and approached the bed. "I didn't think you were the type for bedside vigils" John rasped and blinked up at the figure towering above him.

"It was the sugar" Mycroft stated blankly twirling his umbrella. "someone had put it in your sugar, might have been Sherlock himself but I doubt it, is is usually not so subtle". John looked confused for a second and then realisation dawned. Sherlock wasn't on drugs, he had been intentionally drugged. How ironic, back at Baskerville Sherlock had suspected the sugar and here they were years later and his deduction had suddenly come true.

"Did you find him? How is he?" John asked hesitantly, not really caring what particular drug it was that had turned Sherlock into a monster. "Overly emotional but otherwise fine, it had cleared his system by the time my men got to him. He can't remember doing it." Mycroft's response was as calm and unemotional as ever but the look in his eyes suggested that he may not be entirely uncaring about his brother's predicament. "He wants to see you?" Mycroft ended and this time it was a question, even a slightly hesitant one. John looked down at his heavily bandaged body avoiding looking at Mycroft as he nodded slightly, "Fine." Was all he said and Mycroft did not wait to exchange pleasantries. John hated himself at that moment as he struggled to keep his breathing in check. He was not afraid of Sherlock, he would not allow himself to be.

In the next few hours the doctors came and went, giving good news and advice about how to achieve optimum recovery. Nothing was damaged beyond repair although the dormant pain in his left arm may increase somewhat and he would have to stay off his right leg for some time.

There was a hesitant knock on the door and John steeled himself as he called out for Sherlock to enter. There was a pause of a few seconds before the door opened and Sherlock entered but did not approach the bed. John surveyed him, relieved to find that his eyes were not empty the way they had been on those occasions. Unfortunately this did not prevent John from feeling just a little hesitant as Sherlock stood just inside the door eyes fixed on John.

"Are you okay" John finally forced out and Sherlock flinched as though he had been struck. "I should be asking you that" he said his voice surprisingly even and emotionless. Actually lack of emotions shouldn't be a surprise when it came to Sherlock John mused but he didn't try to analyse further but rather tried to force himself into some sort of reconciliation. After all he knew this was not Sherlock's fault. "I'll be fine." He tried to make his smile as genuine as possible but Sherlock still would not move from his position by the door.

"I hurt you." Finally there was emotion in Sherlock's voice and John could see him shift uncomfortably from one food to the other. Images of Sherlock lashing out, cold eyes empty of all emotion flashed before Johns eyes and he shivered slightly at the memory, but he held himself together. "No, someone hurt you and I got in the way, now come here. " John said indicating the chair that Mycroft had been sat in earlier that day.

Sherlock's movements were slow and hesitant as he approached the bed, eyes refusing to meet Johns. He sat slowly chewing his lower lip. "It's not your fault" John wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Sherlock or himself as he reached his unharmed hand out to Sherlock. John could have sworn that it was fear that flickered across Sherlock's face as he hesitantly and carefully grasped John's hand and squeezed it.

They sat in silence for a moment John watching Sherlock whose gaze was firmly fixed on their hands as they locked together. John started to drift, still under the influence of the drugs they kept pumping into him to keep him from feeling the pain that he knew was lurking just under the surface. Finally Sherlock looked up and John snapped back to consciousness…

"I am sorry" Sherlock's voice was just barely above a whisper and John squeezed his hand. "It really isn't your fault, I do know that" John repeated himself trying to reassure them both. "Does it hurt" Sherlock's eyes drifted across John's battered body. "No, they have me on the good drugs" John smiled but Sherlock didn't seem to get the joke. Making a soft unintelligible noise he stood quickly letting go of Johns hand.

The sudden movement made John flinch slightly and Sherlock noticed panic spreading across his face and he threw himself out of the room in one fluid movement. John sat in his bed watching his best friend and his attacker disappear out of the room and suddenly his vision swam and then tears started rolling unbidden down his cheeks. Damn, this was going to be hard he thought and leaned back into the cushions.

Sherlock was refusing to take his calls so when it came to John being discharged he swallowed his pride and called Lestrade. The grey haired detective stormed through the door without knocking and found John sitting on the side of the bed looking extremely tired with his left arm in a sturdy cast held up by a sling and his old cane leaning against the bed.

"What happened this time? Damn, you really should call me when you find a case on your own." Lestrade snapped and then stopped himself "Where is Sherlock, is he ok?". His voice moved from angry to concerned in the space of a few words and John tried to smile but it came out more of a twisted grin. "No Greg, I don't think so" John sighed and watched as Lestrade's face went a shade paler, "What's happened" he repeated himself and because it is John and not Sherlock in front of him it went unnoticed.

John looked away, staring out of the window as he answered. "Someone poisoned him. Some kind of drugs… Mycroft is having it tested."John took a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on something outside the window "I tried to help and he attacked me, it turned nasty".

Lestrade inhaled swiftly taking in the battered form of John in front of him. "He did this to you?" Greg's voice was completely incredulous and John's only answer was a very small nod and his eyes closing briefly. Silence filled the room as neither man wanted to deal with the many questions that filled the space between them. Finally Lestrade broke the silence "How bad?" he said walking forward and placing a hand gently on Johns leg. For a few minutes he thought John would not answer at all but then John turned toward him and shook his head in a movement that Lestrade could not interpret. "I'll heal, not sure about him" he said in a low voice as he sliped off the bed grabbing the cane and leaning heavily on it.

At that moment a nurse entered the room with a bunch of papers in her hand. "Here you are Mr Watson…" she started and then frowned, "remember what we said about walking, you're not leaving here unless you use the chair" she chastised as she brught the wheelchair around. At that moment John was infinitely relieved that Sherlock wasn't there to watch him being wheeled out of the hospital in that infernal chair.

Lestrade followed a step behind, his brain making summersaults as he tried to make sense of the facts as they had been presented to him. He always knew that Sherlock was unpredictable but the one thing he had somehow always taken for granted was his desire to protect John Watson, so to see John being wheeled out of hospital after supposedly having been put there by Sherlock seemed all but impossible.

When the taxi pulled up at 221B Lestrade jumped out quickly ringing the doorbell and assuming that Sherlock would answer. He helped John out of the car noting the strained face of the Doctor and turned only to find Mrs Hudson instead of Sherlock standing on the doorstep with tears in her eyes.

They settled John in his bed and watch him slump against the pillows in relief, eyes closing and breaths becoming more even as he approached sleep. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson stood together just inside his door, watching him guiltily and not knowing what to do to help.

Eventually Lestrade felt Mrs Hudson pull at his elbow and they both exited, making their way down the stairs and into her cosy living room. Mrs Hudson boiled the kettle and they both siped their tea in silence until Lestrade finally found that he had to broach the subject. "Has he been back?" he asked quietly staring into his teacup.

"He's probably up there now… hasn't left his room since he came back" Mrs Hudson answered and Lestrade found himself torn between relief at knowing where Sherlock was and a nagging sensation that was related to fear at having him so close to the man he had hurt so badly. "It will be fine…" Mrs Hudson said firmly, "They took the sugar and you will find them something to do, won't you?" she continued looking expectantly at Lestrade. And with that he realised that yes, that was probably their best course of action, they needed to make things as normal as possible for the two men upstairs, nevertheless Lestrade slept on Mrs Hudson's sofa that night, just to be on the safe side.

The next morning Lestrade threw himself into work and barked out orders for everyone to bring him their most puzzling leads, old cases would be fine, as long as it was confusing. Only Donovan understood what he was up to and she gave him a frustrated look wondering what on earth he was doing looking for entertainment for the freak.

John woke late from the jangling of his phone. A message from Lestrade…. "Need you both, please come" and two seconds later an address in south London. Please don't treat me like an idiot, he cursed silently to the ceiling but nevertheless got up and made his way to the bathroom to wash and get ready. Sherlock was gone when he got downstairs and he wondered if he had ever actually returned for the night. John had been too out of it to know. Still he threw on his jacket and made his way to the appointed address, dread building up in his chest as he waited to see if Lestrades plan would work, because he had no doubt that the text had been a plan to get himself and Sherlock on the same ground together.

Getting out of the taxi he leaned heavily on his cane but faught to keep his posture as upright as possible, trying to hide his cast inside his jacket. He did not want questions about this. He struggled to keep upright and in control as Donovan held the crime scene tape up to him informing him that "the freak is heading upstairs". He made his way upstairs stopping in the doorway to the room Sherlock and Lestrade were currently in. The familiar sound of Sherlock's deductions wafted over him as he leaned slightly against the doorpost.

He didn't really register what they were talking about but he was aware of Sherlock sighing and shrugging, saying "They're not finished, they're still in the house" and then the world spun swiftly on its axis and someone burst from the wardrobes beside Lestrade. John Stepped out swiftly slamming his cane into the perp's head making him crumble to the floor only to be followed by John himself only seconds later as his injured leg gave way without the support of the cane.

Lestrade and Sherlock reacted only a fraction of a second later, Lestrade slapping handcuffs on the unconscious criminal as Sherlock scooped John up in his arms with a gentleness that belied his usual sternness. Donovan stormed up the stairs but stopped stock still as she took in the scene before her.

The world seemed to stop for a moment as everyone tried to catch their breath and take stock of their situation. Sherlock was the first to break the situation and the fear and gentleness and his voice were completely uncharacteristic and enough to make the rest of the room stay silent and confused. "I'm so sorry, God John, I'm sorry…. I love you… I never meant to…"

Even though Johns face was white with pain after having bent his damaged leg and jostled his bruised ribs he managed to smile through the pain and reach a hand up to brush Sherlock's dark curls from his forehead. "I know" he gasped shallowly "please take me home" he continued feeling an incredible relief as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him supporting him as he stood up and guiding him to the waiting taxi. Lestrade watched in silent confusion as Sherlock all but carried their mutual friend into the waiting car. Thirty seconds later his phone bleeped with a text.

Thank you, I will keep an eye. MH

An eye was certainly kept but once Sherlock had supported his friend up the stairs the cameras were put on low priority. It was obvious that the drugs were no longer influencing Sherlock and he was once again back to being the fierce supporter of the seemingly uninteresting Doctor.

Once Sherlock had John up the stairs he carefully slipped off John's jumper, wincing as he revealed bruised skin and a sturdy cast. John didn't even struggle when Sherlock gingerly pulled him to his feet so that he could remove the jeans and expose the heavily bandaged leg underneath. Slowly he guided the now nearly undressed doctor through the door to his own bedroom, still in complete silence. Neither of them knew what to say, there was just too much pain and fear coursing through the room, but it was overlaid with a strong sense of reconciliation.

Carefully Sherlock lowered his friend to the bed and tucked the covers around him. He sat on the side of the bed and placed a hand gently on the other man's shoulder "I'm so sorry" he repeats closing his eyes and listening for his friends breathing to even out. Before that happened John shifted slightly beside him and whispers softly from beneath he covers "Still not your fault." And even though it was only five o'clock Sherlock moved to the other side of the bed and lay down on the covers.

At that point Mycroft chose to absent himself from the room where the surveillance was being performed. Only leaving instructions that should any violence ensue he was to be contacted, he left his brother and the man he knew that his brother loved, in one form or another to be watched by strangers, at least that was marginally less intrusive.


End file.
